


forgiveness (can you imagine?)

by oceanofchaos



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, (past) Bellamy Blake/Gina Martin, (past) Clarke Griffin/Lexa - Freeform, About to Die, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Forgiveness, Major Character Injury, Pre-Relationship, post 3x08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6386038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos/pseuds/oceanofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s dumb and kind of cruel, because she knows better than anyone how much it fucks you up to be kissed by someone as they die, but if this is it? If these really are her last moments? It just seems unfair that after all this time, and trust, and hurt, if she never even gets to kiss Bellamy. And if they aren't her last moments, well maybe they can work some of this out at some future date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forgiveness (can you imagine?)

Clarke’s definitely slowing down now, which is a problem, because they can’t afford to slow down. She stumbles, and for a moment she can’t see any of the rest of them through the trees, and her side is so _wet_ , and her head is buzzing. 

 

Murphy appears through foliage, scowling slightly, in what appears to be concern. It’s amazing how much has changed since they first landed.

 

“Come _on_ , Princess,” he calls tensely, “You really don’t want to find out what happens if you fall behind.”

 

She keeps running, but the burst of energy to catch up with him is taking its toll, and she won’t be able to keep pace much longer. The trees are slightly thinner here, and ahead she can make out some of the others; Harper and Octavia carrying a Grounder each, Monty supporting someone on his shoulder as best he can. 

 

Her foot hits the ground funnily, jarring her all the way up her spine, and she stumbles again. Murphy catches her arm, and he tries very hard not to look worried.

 

“I’m gonna take a quick breather,” she says carefully, makes sure not to slur her speech, keeps her eyes clear as she nods at Murphy. “No,” she interrupts, pre-empting his response, “It’s fine, I’ll be fine, I just need a minute. Keep going, I’ll catch up.” She’s slowing as she talks, there’s a large oak just coming up, and she can lean against it. Catch her breath. Whatever.

 

“I’m gonna run up ahead to Lincoln,” he says, “Check how much further it’s going to be.”

 

The others are out of sight again. He looks like he doesn’t want to leave her, and she’d find it funny if she had the oxygen to focus on it. Breathing is surprisingly tricky. She doesn’t think it’s because they’ve been running pretty much solidly for almost seven hours now.

 

“I’ll catch up,” she says again, and makes it as reassuring as it can.

 

Murphy nods, and disappears into the trees. 

 

She takes a deep breath, and lifts up her jacket to check her side. 

 

It’s so fucking bad.

 

———

 

After Lexa had died, Clarke and Murphy had stayed just long enough to find out about the succession from Titus, and then raced to make it back to Arkadia before the blockade caught them out. It was easier with horses, and the safe passage granted by Titus in Lexa’s honour, but with the political instability caused by the Commander’s death, they couldn’t trust that no one would break the truce. They were right.

 

Ducking various scout teams, they’d filled each other in on the bare bones of what had happened since he left with Jaha, and Murphy hadn’t pressed her on what she’d done, on why she’d pulled the switch, or why she’d left after the Mountain, or why she’d trusted Lexa again. He told her about Emori, and ALIE, and the depths to which Thelonius had sunk. She told him about Pike, and Farm Station, and they discussed what the plan of attack should be as they neared Arkadia. Looking for a cave to stay for the night, they’d reunited with Octavia, who had been furious with Clarke initially, and assuaged only by Murphy’s account of Lexa’s death. 

 

In the early hours of the morning, or perhaps the late hours of the night, Indra had returned, with Kane slung over one shoulder. Behind her followed the remnants of Kane’s resistance, helping to support the Grounder patients, Lincoln, Monty, and Bellamy.

 

She’s honestly not sure who was more shocked to see whom.

 

They did emergency patch ups on the worst of the injuries and illnesses, and Clarke did her best to avoid too much conversation. Miller clapped her on the shoulder, smiled fiercely, but it’s not enough to make up for absence of Raven, or the way Monty keeps looking back towards Arkadia, or the yawning pit in her stomach every time Bellamy avoids her eyes, or every time Lexa’s name is mentioned. 

 

It’s Lincoln who took control. The plan was to head to the Broadleaf Clan, to _Yujleda_ , and find safe harbour with them. If they moved slow, kept to certain areas of the forest, they could get past the blockade, regroup their forces and return to stop Pike while the Grounders are busy with choosing the new Commander. 

 

It works well initially, but on the second day of their escape, they’re ambushed. _Podakru_. A group of hunters, who instantly change their prey to this weakened group of _Skaikru_. It’s habit, probably, that means that Clarke and Bellamy stay at the back of the group, ensure everyone escapes ahead of them, and the race begins. Sometimes they lose them, but it’s never more than fifteen minutes before the Lake Clan have found them again, and they start to tire. They get sloppy. 

 

Clarke couldn’t even say how many hours it’s been, when one of the _Trikru_ trips on something. She hits the ground sprawling, and Bellamy instantly goes to her. They’ve got a lead on the Lake Clan hunters, but not by much, so Clarke stands guard at his back as he gathers the fallen woman into his arms.

 

“You got her?” she asks, and it’s the first thing she has said to him since Arkadia, since he looked her in the eyes and locked her up, and she doesn’t mean to look at him as she says it. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and rough. He’s still looking forward.

 

She wants to say it distracts her, that she misses the hunters because she’s barely slept, and her heart is hurting, and Bellamy says something to her without bitterness in his voice. But she sees the knife in the air, and he’s carrying someone, and maybe it’s past time to admit that there are no acceptable losses. 

 

The knife hits her side, instead of his back. He’s still looking forward.

 

“ _Run_ ,” she yells, and he takes off, as she fights off the hunter, as she starts running after them.

 

———

 

She’d done her best to put pressure on the wound as they ran, but the hunter had grabbed his knife from her side, and she’s been losing blood steadily. She could still be okay with medical treatment, but there’s no way to know how far they are from their destination, how much longer she can hold out. Her jacket had covered the worst of the damage, but she suspects that she’s giving the _Podakru_ a trail of blood to follow. 

 

It’s worrying, really, how little it hurts.

 

She’s barely covered the wound again, when Bellamy emerges from the trail. He’s not carrying the Grounder anymore, and his brow is knit, but he still can’t meet her eyes.

 

“Clarke, come on,” he says, and there are black floaters which skip across her vision now, “We need to keep moving.”

 

“You go ahead, I’ll be right behind you,” she says, and she sounds breathier than before.

 

“We’re nearly there,” he says, and he’s coming towards her, “We’re nearly safe.”

 

Safe. Can you imagine?

 

She can tell the moment he realises she’s injured, because he automatically looks her in the eye. He can’t not. It still hurts, to look him in the eye, but in a different way now. Before, he’d looked at her, and seen her soul, and proven all her worst fears about herself to be true, and it hurt that they could come to this. That this was something they would have to work through, in some nebulous future. Now it hurts because they still can’t see anything beyond all the hurt they’ve caused each other, and they might never get the chance to. 

 

He’s trying to gauge her pain from her expression, Clarke thinks, which is almost funny. It really doesn’t hurt. He looks wrecked, and she tries her best to smile. He’s by her almost instantly it seems, either he’s moving quickly or she’s losing time, and he looks afraid to touch her, as he goes to lift up her jacket. She lifts it up for him, and his intake of breath feels loud, shocky, in the forest.

 

_Not long now_ , she thinks.

 

“No, that’s no,” he’s murmuring, his hand goes to her side, eyes trained on her wound, even as he presses down in a futile attempt to stop blood loss, “ _No_.” 

 

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up,” she promises, and he looks up at her all hurt and angry.

 

She knows it’s selfish. She knows exactly how selfish it is, she’s been on the other side of this. She knows exactly what it does to you, when someone kisses you as they’re dying. Exactly how much it fucks you up. 

 

But if this is it? If after all this, she doesn’t get the chance to fix things with him, to forgive him, to have him forgive her. If after all this, all they’ve been through, all they’ve been together for, this is it? She’s willing to be selfish. 

 

“Bellamy,” she says, and curls her fingers in his shirt slightly, and he looks up again from where he’s now pressing on her side. She leans in, has to support herself with his weight to stay up, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s sweet, and light, and she hopes she doesn’t taste like blood. When she leans back, he’s crying silently, and she doesn’t think he’s noticed. “You have to run,” she says, and her vision is shrinking so he is all she can see, “I’ll catch up, I promise.”

 

There’s shouting in the background, but she can’t tell if it’s friendly or the enemy. 

 

She blacks out.

 

———

 

When she wakes up, she honestly can’t tell if she’s surprised or not. There are only so many times you can be sure that you’re dying, and wake up alone in some kind of medical centre before it starts to become commonplace. The hut is clearly of Grounder origin, though made differently to any that she’s seen so far. It’s a circular wooden room, empty of comfort apart from the mat she lies on, with herbs dried up and hanging from the walls, shelves stuffed with books, scrolls, and glass jars. The light is dappled, and green tinged, and from the window she can see leaves. Judging by the warmth of the light, Clarke estimates it’s afternoon and either been about five hours, or it’s a different day.

 

She can’t hear anyone.

 

She checks her side, and it’s bound tightly, bandages stained a light green with some kind of paste. It doesn’t hurt, but in a different way to before, less a conspicuous absence of pain, of feeling, and more a warmth that will no doubt shift to an ache very quickly. She’s wearing light flaxen clothes, and as glad as she is to not be covered in her own blood any more, she hates how vulnerable she feels.

 

She lumbers to her feet, and her limbs feel too heavy to control well. None of the jars hold any easily identifiable painkiller or poison, so she finds the bottle with the heaviest base, and carries it by the neck, ready to swing. This is probably the _Yujleda_ town they were running to, because she actually woke up, but she’s alone again, and she’s been on Earth too long to assume that she’s truly safe.

 

When Clarke makes it to the doorway of the hut, she’s amazed. Stretching out before her is a walkway, and as she looks around, she can see a series of ropes, walkways, stairs, nets, all of which web across and around the town. The town which is built entirely in the crowns of trees, multi-leveled, and hidden almost perfectly from the ground by the leaves and branches of the forest below. It’s unlike anything she could ever have dreamed of, anything she could have imagined.

 

In the centre of the town, the hub of the web, is a large roundhouse, carved straight from a huge tree, incredibly thick. Wells could have identified it easily, but Clarke didn’t even know trees could be this big. Noise travels on the breeze, and though she can’t hear specifics, she knows that even if her people aren’t there, there’ll be someone there who can bring her to them.

 

She hefts the bottle in her hand, sets out across the walkways.

 

———

 

The entirety of the room goes silent as she stands in an entrance, blocking the sunlight, eyes hard. The bottle in her hand glitters, and she’s very aware of the sudden stillness. She sees her people, sitting in one corner with a few Grounders she’s never seen before, eating from wooden bowls. Kane and Indra sit separately, at a table with some _Yujileda_ adults, and they are busy with maps, not food. The hubbub before she had stepped in had been relatively friendly, peaceful, and she can see the remnants of smiles dying on some of their faces.

 

“Clarke!” It’s Lincoln who moves first, putting down his food and getting to his feet with a wary glance at the rest of the room. It seems to be some kind of communal longhall, mostly set up for eating. “You shouldn’t be up right now,” he says, supporting her with one hand, while he gently takes the bottle with the other, “We didn’t even think you’d be awake for another hour or two.”

 

“I’ve had more than enough sleep,” she says, and ignores how he sceptical he looks. “Food sounds good though,” and it’s not exactly subtle, so he walks with her back to the group.

 

“I’d say you look like shit,” says Murphy, shifting to the side to make room for her to sit, “But you do actually look better than you did before, so.”

 

Monty picks up an untouched bowl which was sitting beside him, and passes it to her. It’s some kind of oats based dish, she thinks, and she smiles gratefully at him. As much as she can smile, anyway. “You had us worried,” he says softly, and his brow is furrowed. He can barely look her in the eyes as well, gaze flitting all her over her and not stopping, but it’s to be expected. They all carry the weight of their decisions, and it’s easy for no one.

 

“Did everyone make it?” asks Clarke, and in the background she notices conversations restarting around them.

 

“Yeah, you were the only touch-and-go one,” says Murphy, and rolls his eyes at Miller’s scowl. “Pretty sure it isn’t actually news to the Princess that she nearly died,” he points out, “There’s no point talking around it.”

 

“There isn’t,” agrees Octavia, voice hard, and when Clarke looks up from her bowl, she glaring at her challengingly, “You’re really lucky Bellamy went back for you.”

 

“Yeah,” says Clarke to her bowl, and then she looks up at Bellamy. He’d leaned back as she’d sat down, some subconscious desire to be away from her, she thinks. He’s had a chance to wash his face, though he’s still wearing his clothes from before, and there’s a bloodstain on his cuffs which she thinks is probably hers. He’s watching her warily, and she almost wants to cry when they catch each other’s gaze, the way he looks ready to flinch away from whatever she’ll say. “Thank you,” she says, and she can see the way he represses a reaction, “Bellamy, _thank you_.”

 

There’s a moment where he just looks at her, assessing, where everything becomes muted and all she can really hear is the pounding of her heart. Then he nods, and she can finally look back to her bowl, and maybe things aren’t fixed, maybe they’ll never be fixed, but they’re maybe a little better.

 

“Not that I’m not enjoying this,” says Miller dryly, “But we should probably try to work out our next move.”

 

“Yeah, _please_ ,” says Harper, kind of sharply, and they’re off, explaining in more depth the hierarchies behind Pike’s command, their intentions for Arkadia, the extent of their resources. What she’s missed. Who they’ve lost.

 

Monroe is dead, and Clarke feels it crack something inside of her. She finishes her food, but she notices the way Monty puts his to one side, the tension that radiates through his body as Miller and Harper outline the internal events of the camp. He’s pale, and tense, and sad, and every part of her aches. Things were supposed to be better, by now.

 

She can’t imagine what it would be like to get your mom back, and have her almost instantly advocate all out genocide. Probably much the same as if you got your daughter back and she immediately committed an act of genocide. Probably she should stop thinking about this.

 

Monty chimes in, after Harper and Miller are done, and talks about the inner workings of Pike’s team, their motivations. He talks about the infrastructural change before and after they found Farm Station, and what’s been happening with the remaining delinquents. He talks about Jasper, about Finn’s ashes, about Raven.

 

When he gets to Thelonius Jaha, Clarke automatically exchanges a look with Murphy. There’s no way that’s going to end well.

 

“What?” asks Bellamy, tense.

 

“Does it matter?” replies Octavia instantly, “It’s hardly the most pressing matter at the moment.”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” says Murphy with a world-weary sigh. “That’s potentially end-of-the-world-all-over-again stuff.”

 

There’s a pause. 

 

“Of course it is,” Bellamy sounds exhausted, “Of fucking course.”

 

———

 

The ritual to choose a new Commander takes about two weeks, so they’re going to take three days to recuperate and get whatever help from the Broadleaf Clan that they can, and then they’ll head back to Arkadia. Hopefully by the time a Commander is chosen, they’ll have sorted out the whole Pike thing. Hopefully, the Commander chosen will be Aden. Hopefully, it’ll be anyone other than Ontari. 

 

Clarke gets the bandages on her side changed, finds out what she can about _Yujileda_ medicine. She gets to see the ill and injured _Trikru_ they’d brought from Arkadia, and help explain the ways in which she’d patched them up. They talk collectively to the head of the town, and Clarke lets Murphy talk about Lexa, about Titus.

 

Bellamy was there for every planning session, but otherwise she hasn’t seen him, doesn’t even know where he’s staying. Harper has taken to getting up, leaving, whenever Clarke joins the group. Octavia does her best to ignore her, and always seems annoyed whenever she accidentally draws Clarke into conversation. Kane has been healing from his injuries, and she goes to see him, but mostly they strategise; he tries to talk to her about Polis, but it’s too much, too soon. Lincoln’s still friendly, but busy with the leader of the _Yujileda_ , with Indra, with Octavia, presumably with Bellamy. Murphy sits with her in silence, mostly at meals, and squeezes her shoulder a bit sometimes. Miller talks to her a little, as does Monty, but they only ever sit with her separately. It’s not that Miller’s angry, he tells her, he just doesn’t understand.

 

“He’s always done what’s right, not what’s easiest or even what may be best, but what’s morally right, you know? Like, I’ve never seen him pick what’s best for one group over the right thing to do before, and I just. I don’t know. And he won’t _talk_ to me, so I can’t even find out,” says Miller, eyes on the knife he’s been steadily sharpening. 

 

Clarke’s leaning against the trunk of a tree, sitting with him on one of the platforms. She’s been watching for birds as he talks. They’re so delicate, so entirely distinct from this whole life.

 

“We’ve all paid a price,” she says, sort of stilted, and Miller huffs a bitter sort of laugh. “No, I mean. It’s not like he doesn’t know the choices he made. It’s a lot easier to justify them to yourself than it is to justify them to the people around you. That’s–” They both pretend her voice doesn’t crack. “That’s hard.”

 

“I know, I do. It’s kind of selfish, anyway. I just want to know what he was thinking, him and Bellamy and Brian. I want to know how they could _do_ this, how they could think it would go anywhere good, because it hurt that they did. And I know that he’s hurting, that he lost his dad, and now he’s lost his mom, and I still. Fuck.” He puts the knife down and shrugs at her, kind of helplessly.

 

“It’s a fair thing to wonder, don’t be hard on yourself,” says Clarke, “Just try for patience. If all else fails, we can just find some unripe jobi nuts, see what happens.”

 

Miller smiles a bit, not much, but enough. No one ever seems to smile any more.

 

“I’m glad you’re back. I wish you hadn’t left,” he says, almost like a disclaimer, “But Monty and Bellamy said you had to, so I’m glad you’re back.”

 

“Yeah?” she says, and it isn’t supposed to sound like a question, isn’t supposed to sound hopeful.

 

“Yeah.”

 

———

 

It’s nearly sunset, and their last day in the village. Clarke’s explored it a fair bit at this point, it’s better than pointed silences and words left unsaid too long. She’s walked over to her favourite platform, one just above tree level, at the furthest end of the town. She can make out the horizon from it, and she sits, legs dangling over the edge of the platform, and waits for the sun.

 

“So,” says Bellamy, voice rough and unexpected, and she startles a little. “Easy, don’t want to fall from here.” She can hear the teasing note in his voice, yet another thing she wasn’t sure she’d get again. 

 

“Hey,” she says, looking up at him. He’s dressed in the flaxen clothes provided by their hosts, all white and clean, and he looks healthy in these last golden rays of the sun. “I’m going to watch the sunset; want to join me?”

 

“Sure,” he says, and sits down next to her on the platform, his legs dangling beside hers. They aren’t touching, but it’s close, and she can feel his warmth, is hyperaware of his presence.

 

The bottom of the sun starts to kiss the horizon, and all the clouds flame up from pink to gold.

 

“So,” he says again, “You kissed me.”

 

Her throat is dry, and the clouds turn orange, red.

 

“Yeah,” she agrees, “But in my defence, I was pretty confident I was dying.”

 

“Not sure that’s a great defence,” says Bellamy, but he sounds matter-of-fact, not hurt or angry or offended or disgusted. Or or or. Just kind of dry, maybe a little deadpan.

 

She waits, a little, and the sun is almost halfway down before she can find the right words.

 

“It wasn’t that I didn’t need forgiveness,” she starts, “It was that I didn’t _just_ need forgiveness. I needed some time, some perspective. I needed to make sure I was still making all these horrible choices for the right reasons. It wasn’t regret, or anger, or whatever. It wasn’t a judgement on what we had done, on anyone, not really. I just needed to be able to hear myself think. I couldn’t be what they needed without it.”

 

“You still left.”

 

She looks at him, but he’s staring fixedly out across the treetops, and she’s not brave enough to touch his shoulder, to take his hand.

 

“I left, yeah, but I had to. I wasn’t sure I could trust my judgement, and I knew I could trust yours. I knew _they_ could trust you.” She takes a deep breath, feels the way it shudders out of her. “I didn’t think it would make that much of a difference,” she says, quiet, honest.

 

“You’re an idiot,” agrees Bellamy.

 

It’s not really worth debating.

 

“I had to go, you get that, right?” she asks instead, and her hair shifts slightly with the gusty breath he lets out.

 

“I get that. It’s the not coming back bit that I’m currently stuck on,” he admits, and that’s already more than she ever thought she’d get him to admit.

 

“Time went so quickly, I’d barely even worked out how to keep myself fed when I realised it had been a month. And once a whole month had gone by, it felt like it’d be easier to stay gone, than to come back. Like if I went back then, I’d just need to recover all over again, or I’d ruin what you had managed to salvage. Like it would start the fighting all over again.”

 

“We did fine without you, those first three months. We did great,” he’s speaking earnestly, it’s a fact, not an insult, not a jibe. It still hurts more than it should, given she knows this. It’s what she wanted. “We rebuilt, and we had a functioning society, and Arkadia honestly seemed like it might survive the transition period.”

 

“And then I came back and the fighting started up?” asks Clarke, and she manages to make it sound wry enough to mask the residual fear.

 

“Get over yourself, Princess, it wasn’t anything to do with you. I’d say that the Ice Nation started it all, but there was already tension left over from the Ark, from the Mountain, from Lexa.”

 

The clouds have gone from red to purple, and the sun is almost entirely gone.

 

“Why didn’t you come back? In Polis, why did you stay?” Bellamy asks, and he’s not bothering to hide the hurt in his voice.

 

“You know why,” replies Clarke quietly.

 

“I want to hear it, I want you to say it.”

 

She takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Wishes it helped more. “I stayed because I wanted to keep the peace, because I didn’t trust that they’d keep it without me there. Because I didn’t trust that Lexa wouldn’t sacrifice us again, if she felt she had to.”

 

“That’s not real peace. If it’s so fragile that we have to leave people there for who knows how long. If both sides distrust each other that much. It’s not real peace, it’s just. I don’t know, it’s just detente. It’s a ceasefire. That’s not enough.”

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“Was that the only reason?” asks Bellamy, and the sun is below the horizon, but the horizon still glows with the last of its rays, and she can still just about make out his freckles.

 

“No.

 

“I was afraid, I guess. Afraid to come back, afraid it would be too late. I didn’t want to come back and ask forgiveness for leaving. For everyone to see that even though I left, I still wasn’t okay yet. And I truly did think I was doing more for our people staying there, protecting our interests with the Commander and the Council of Twelve Clans. That it would have better impact than anything I could have done at Arkadia. I was trying to do what I thought was best for our people.”

 

Bellamy laughs, but it’s a cracked, hurt thing.

 

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s anguish just below the surface, “Tell me about it.”

 

She reaches for his arm, before she can overthink it, and he shifts so that the line of their legs touches. He curls an arm around her, and she leans in slightly. They don’t look at each other, but at the spreading dusk, the gleams of the first few stars.

 

“You’re good, you know that? You’re _good_ , Bellamy,” she knows what he’s done, and she can feel him flinch. “You were trying to protect them,” she says, “It wasn’t okay, but it was done with good intentions, and you were just trying to protect them.”

 

“That’s not enough,” he points out, and she can feel the way her hair brushes his cheek when she nods.

 

“No. No, but it wasn’t with Tondisi, either. Or Mount Weather. Whatever the next thing will be. It’s never enough. I’m done offering forgiveness, or redemption. And I’m done asking for it. We’ve done these things, these terrible things, and we did them to survive, to protect our people. It doesn’t make them okay.”

 

“But they still happened,” says Bellamy.

 

“They still happened,” agrees Clarke, “And we just have to live with it.”

 

“We have to do better,” says Bellamy, not a contradiction but an addendum.

 

“Exactly, yeah.”

 

Even the violet of the sky is darkening to a deep navy now, all traces of the day gone. They watch the stars come out, so different from space. They twinkle, now.

 

“Do you want to talk about Lexa?” asks Bellamy, and he sounds truly hesitant.

 

“Only if you want to talk about Gina,” offers Clarke, and his arm tenses around her, just for a split second. “Monty was filling me in,” she explains, and he nods.

 

“Some other time?” he suggests, and she hums in agreement. They fall back into silence.

 

She prefers the twinkling of the stars, the rich and changing colours of the sky, to what she saw from the Ark. Space is a lot colder, when you’re in it. 

 

“So,” says Bellamy, in time, “You kissed me.”

 

“Yeah,” she agrees, “But only because I wanted to.”

 

“Yeah?” he sounds almost amused.

 

“At least once. I figured maybe, maybe if I’d had time, if we could fix Arkadia, and us. Maybe one day we’d have the time, and the inclination, and the trust. And it didn’t seem very fair, that I’d never get to find out. So I kissed you.”

 

“Good logic,” he says, but she can’t read his tone. He’s silent just long enough for her to feel a little awkward about the whole thing, because she’s never been sure if he ever considered her a _maybe one day_ in the way that she sometimes thought of him. The way she’d thought of Lexa. Maybe that’s a faint, hopeful, potential something that he’s just never seen. Then finally, _finally_ , he says, “I probably would have done the same.”

 

She doesn’t look to him, but she can’t help her smile. It’s small, but it’s the first time she’s smiled in days now.

 

“This doesn’t mean we’re just magically okay now,” he adds, and for all that he’s serious, she can’t help a huff of laughter.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she assures him, “We’re not actually okay on my end either. And this isn’t a promise or anything.”

 

“Obviously not,” and he’s scoffing lightly. “It’s a maybe one day.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

They watch the stars a bit more, but the evening chill is setting in, and the leaves below rustle with a breeze. Besides, they have an early start tomorrow. 

**Author's Note:**

> idk man, all i wanted was to write a quick clarke kisses bellamy as she's dying fic, and suddenly i'm all caught up in how they just haven't talked properly about any of it in so long, and here we are.
> 
> as always, i'm [here on tumblr ](http://www.islandoforder.tumblr.com)if you ever want to talk


End file.
